Shards of Memory
by SyrupylikeBreakfastinMontag
Summary: After Sirius' death, Harry is desperate to find a way to talk to his godfather once more.  He finds a way through the mirror Sirius gave him.  Sirius/Harry Harry/Sirius SB/HP HP/SB Contains slash.


Shards of Memory

*Author's Note: I was feeling like some Harry/Sirius fluff, so I wrote this story. It takes place the summer after Sirius dies, making it around the beginning of the 6th book. Enjoy!*

The first time it happened, Harry thought he was imagining things, that he wanted to see Sirius so badly his mind had just conjured up his godfather's crooked smile in the fragment of mirror. It couldn't be Sirius. Sirius was dead.

"Use it to call me whenever you need me," Sirius had said when he first gave Harry the small hand mirror, "It's part of a set. I have the matching mirror and I will come to you. No matter what." No matter what: Harry wanted that to be true, but no enchantment could reach Sirius in death. He was gone, beyond the reach of Harry's call, which was why Harry thought his mind was playing tricks on him when he first saw Sirius' concerned face in the shard of glass. It couldn't be real. Sirius was dead. So Harry dropped the fragment of mirror into his suitcase where it was quickly buried under piles of clothes.

The second time it happened, Harry nearly jumped out of his skin when he looked down into the mirror and saw twinkling gray eyes staring right back. Harry had just pulled the shard of mirror out of his suitcase while unpacking, and had, without really thinking about it, whispered Sirius' name as he handled the object his godfather had once given him. He hadn't intended it as a summons. He hadn't even thought it possible to summon Sirius, but there he was, smiling up at Harry from the fragment of glass.

"Sirius?" Harry gasped, reaching out with shaking fingers to tentatively stroke the outline of his godfather's chiseled jaw. All he felt was glass under his fingers, but Sirius' smile broadened at the touch. Harry stared down in shock at the other man's face, his vision blurring slightly as tears welled up in his eyes. He had spent all summer mourning Sirius before he had arrived at the Burrow. He hadn't left his room, had refused meals, and had worn the same, ratty, oversized pajama bottoms for way too long, unable to do anything but sit in depressed silence as he replayed Sirius' final fall into that rippling veil over and over in his mind. He missed Sirius so much. The man had been the closest thing Harry ever had to family, and now there he was, smiling affectionately up at Harry's blotchy and tear stained face.

Sirius opened his mouth as if about to say something, but at that moment Mrs. Weasley rapped lightly on the door before pushing it open to lean in and inform Harry that dinner was ready. Harry turned away to answer her, and when he looked back at the mirror, Sirius was gone, leaving nothing but the reflection of Harry's disappointed features in his wake.

The third time it happened, Harry was more prepared, and this time when Sirius' face appeared in the mirror, Harry smiled instead of gaping in surprise.

"Sirius," he murmured, reaching out to tenderly caress the glass. Sirius beamed, and Harry noted absently that Sirius looked much more like his younger self when he smiled like that.

"Harry," Sirius replied lovingly, and Harry nearly melted at the sound. He had thought he would never hear that voice again.

"I miss you," Harry whispered, his smile gone, replaced by a fresh wave of tears. He wanted to reach out to wrap Sirius in his arms and never let go, but he couldn't. All he could do was run his fingertips over the cool glass.

"I know," said Sirius softly, his eyebrows knitting together in concern, "I miss you too."

Harry frowned down at Sirius for a moment before he said quietly, as though afraid to admit it, "You're dead, Sirius." As though saying it out loud really brought the fact home for him, Harry stopped stroking the glass of the mirror. Harry would never be able to touch Sirius like this. He was dead. He was too far away to reach.

"I know," Sirius murmured, looking at Harry as though trying to memorize every detail of his face.

"This is crazy!" Harry cried suddenly, pained frustration etched across his face. It was so hard, being so close to Sirius and yet so far. It was so hard. "You're dead, Sirius. I can't be talking to you. I can't be with you. You're dead!" Harry leaned forward, gazing pleadingly down at what little he could see of Sirius. He wanted so desperately for what he was saying not to be true. He wanted so desperately to not have to miss Sirius anymore.

"Well," said Sirius, a mischievous smirk spreading over his gaunt face, "I've never been one to follow the rules before, and I'm certainly not going to start now." He reached out a hand towards Harry, and this time when Harry tentatively reached out to touch the glass, his probing fingers sank right through to curl around Sirius' proffered digits. His hand felt warm and solid under Harry's fingers, and Harry nearly sobbed in relief. Sirius tugged on Harry, and Harry's arm sunk into the mirror up to the elbow. It felt vaguely like being immersed in warm water. Then Sirius pulled again, and Harry found himself falling head first into the mirror, something that should not have been possible considering he was much larger than the shard of glass. Harry had long since learned, however, that magic had a way of ignoring what was possible and what wasn't. Then Harry didn't care anymore about whether what he was doing was possible or not because Sirius' arms were around him and he could smell the man's musky scent, could feel the softness of his godfather's shirt against his cheek.

Harry tentatively wrapped his arms around Sirius' torso, as though afraid if he moved too quickly Sirius would vanish. But then he had safely wrapped Sirius in an embrace, and he could feel the other man's breath ghost over the top of his head, and it was real. Sirius was really here, pressed tightly against Harry's chest. Harry's head was really tucked under Sirius' stubbly chin. It was real.

"Sirius," Harry breathed, nestling further into the other man's hold. Sirius placed a chaste kiss on the top of Harry's head, squeezing the boy tightly, as afraid as Harry was to let go.

"I could feel you thinking about me," murmured Sirius into Harry's tousled hair, "I could feel how you missed me, how sad you were. I'm sorry I put you through that."

"No!" burst Harry, pulling back from Sirius to look him in the eye, "You have nothing to be sorry about. It was all my fault. I was the reason you went down to the ministry in the first place. You never would have been killed if it weren't for me. It's all my fault." Harry's vision began to blur again as tears welled up in his eyes before spilling out to burn down flushed cheeks. It was all his fault. Sirius was the closest thing he had to family, and he had gotten him killed.

Sirius grabbed Harry's shoulders, making Harry meet his eyes as he said soothingly, "No, Harry it was not your fault. I was restless cooped up in that house for months on end. I was dying to be out of there. I wanted to go, and if I hadn't gone to save you I would have eventually found another reason. I was reckless. It was not your fault I died." Harry sniffled softly, unconvinced but still somewhat placated. It was hard to be unhappy now that he was finally with Sirius again after all this time. Even the knowledge that this had to end, that he couldn't stay here cocooned in Sirius' warm arms forever could not dampen his spirits too much. He was here. His Sirius was here with him.

Harry smiled up at Sirius, pulling away from his hold slightly to examine the other man's face. He looked exactly the same as before he had died: he still had the sharp cheekbones, the dark circles under his eyes, and the classic features that had made him so handsome when he was younger. Years wasting away in Azkaban had made Sirius' face harsher though, stripping him of the boyish charm he once had. Azkaban may have marked him, but death certainly hadn't. Sirius looked the picture of health, the picture of life actually.

"Where are we, Sirius?" asked Harry, taking notice of their surroundings for the first time. They were in the midst of a sea of white. It seemed to stretch on forever since there were no horizons; the floor just seemed to melt into the ceiling without any space in between. It was rather unsettling to look at.

"Is this, like, the afterlife?" Harry asked curiously. Sirius shook his head.

"Nah, this isn't the afterlife. If it were, I doubt if I could've brought you here. I reckon this is just inside the mirror. After all, there's nothing actually inside a mirror. It just reflects the outside world. That's why there's nothing really in here; just white," Sirius said thoughtfully as he too looked around at the endless planes of white that stretched all around them.

"But it's not important," he continued, turning his attention back to Harry and smiling warmly down at him, "I don't care where I am right now. You're here, so here is good." He grinned wryly, a confident twinkle in his eyes.

Harry chuckled, "Yes, it is. It's bloody brilliant." And then, with a burst of Griffindor bravery he hadn't known he possessed, Harry stood on tip toe slightly and pressed his lips tenderly to the older man's. It was a rather scratchy kiss, Sirius had apparently died in need of a shave, but his lips were surprisingly soft and warm under Harry's own. Sirius was still for a moment, but then he seemed to collect himself and was kissing back gently, tightening his arms around the smaller boy and pulling their bodies flush against each other. Harry had expected Sirius to taste like something spicy, cinnamon maybe or licorice, but he just tasted like spit. Perhaps vaguely minty as well, as though he had brushed his teeth a while back and the crisp taste of toothpaste still lingered.

_Must be one heck of a toothpaste to stick around even after death_ thought Harry briefly before he couldn't really think anymore. He was too busy focusing on Sirius' hands gliding down his sides, and the teeth nipping at the soft flesh of his neck to have coherent thoughts aside from: _That feels nice. No, correction: that feels bloody brilliant!_ He had wanted his godfather back for so long, that he had twisted his definition of wanting, and now all Harry could think about was how much he needed to get his hands on every inch of Sirius he could.

"Fuck, Sirius," moaned Harry as Sirius sucked sharply on the crook of his neck, leaving an angry red mark in his wake. Harry grappled with Sirius' shirt as the other man placed wet, openmouthed kisses along Harry's jaw, ripping at the buttons in frustration when they didn't immediately pop open. Some shirts just didn't know when to get out of the bloody way. Then Harry had taken off the offending material and flung it away, neither male noticing when the shirt just kept floating through the endless white, not coming to rest on any semblance of a floor. After all, what did a lack of a floor matter when fingers were grappling with zippers on trousers, and Sirius' palm was cupped around Harry's groin?

It was all gasps, panted breaths, and grasping fingers as Harry succeeded in shoving his godfather's trousers down the man's bony hips and gripped Sirius' prick, firmly stroking the velvety shaft as Sirius reached into Harry's boxers to return the favor. They were beyond words, unable to emit anything but needy moans and jumbled versions of the other's name, and then, all too soon, Harry jerked slightly and white ribbons of cum splattered Sirius' hand and chest. Harry's hand stilled on Sirius' cock as he came, the activity temporarily forgotten as his orgasm took over the boy's thoughts, but as soon as his head had cleared a little, he returned to his task with vigor. A minute later Sirius was gasping and orgasmed as well, leaving a sticky trail of white fluid to slowly drip down Harry's flat stomach.

For a moment, the only sound was their heavy breathing as the two men came down from their orgasms, then Harry said softly, "I don't want to go back. I don't want this to be over and for you to be gone again, to be… dead again."

Sirius frowned down at him, sorrow welling up in his gray eyes as he regretfully stroked Harry's pale cheek, "I'm dead, luv. Nothing much either of us can do about that. As much as I hate it, you need to move on, to put me out of your mind." Harry baulked, glaring determinedly into Sirius' sad eyes.

"And what if I don't want to put you out of my mind?" he demanded defiantly, glaring fiercely. He would not, could not forget. He wouldn't, not even if Sirius asked him to.

Sirius smiled a sad smile, "Then call when you need me. I will always come to you, no matter what." And then Harry felt a sharp pull behind his stomach, and the white world was blurring. Sirius grew farther and farther away until Harry landed with a thump back in Ron's room at the Burrow. For a horrible moment, Harry was afraid it hadn't really happened, that he had dreamed it all up due to the intensity of his longing to see his godfather, but then he looked down and saw that his pants were unfastened and cum stains were drying on his stomach. Oh. So it wasn't fake then.

Later that night after dinner, as Ron snored loudly on the other side of the room, Harry pulled out the mirror and stared at it for a moment.

"Sirius?" he whispered tentatively as coils of hot fear twisted and tangled in his stomach. What if Sirius didn't come when he called? What if he would never be able to see his godfather again? What if it really was over? But then Sirius' gray eyes and broad grin filled the shard of glass and Harry beamed in relief. Sirius would always come when Harry needed him. No matter what.

*Author's note: Well, there you have it! What do you think? I know parts of it got a wee bit corny, but I hope you will forgive me that. I was in a very fluffy mood writing this. Please review with any feedback! Also, I'm taking requests for stories, so if you have a prompt you want me to work off of, or a couple you want me to write about, just let me know. Thanks for reading! I hope you liked it!*


End file.
